


Threshold

by wispmother



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Other, it will find it's way in and it will do all that it can to destroy you, it's time to get spooky, paranormal denial won't save you in the end, sometimes you end up exactly where you're intended to be, what you don't know can and will hurt you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wispmother/pseuds/wispmother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vernon Shaw is a journalist for a hokey paranormal magazine, and he is the quintessential non-believer. But a tip comes in one day that sends him to a forgotten Midwestern town where he begins to realize that there are things beyond the human realm of knowledge that no amount of reason and logic can bring right. **ON HIATUS**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the assignment

Vernon Shaw had never, in his entire life, believed in magic. He also didn’t believe in ghosts or monsters or demons or anything like that because there was always…. always an explanation for the weird shit that happened in life. And if he couldn’t provide one, he took comfort in the fact that someone else could. Truth and reason drove him and part of the reason he became a journalist was because he wanted to tell people the truth. He wanted people to see reason and fact and the irony wasn’t lost on him when, after graduating college, he was only able to find work with a two-bit “paranormal” magazine called, even more ironically, “Hidden Truth”.

If he was being honest, the work wasn’t all that bad. He was mostly in charge of writing a few fake “fan write-ins” when the actual write-ins ran dry; posing questions that tried to disprove topics covered in previous issues that the editors would, in turn, respond to with more unfounded data, opinion and hearsay. When not otherwise occupied with that task, he usually found himself helping with research for the big articles, or writing a paragraph here and there when his coworkers couldn’t cleave two unrelated bits of “proof” together believably. He was the best liar on staff, to be sure.

And it wasn’t that he disliked his coworkers; he was truly fond of most of them. The majority had some sort of precursory belief in the supernatural and one or two were more like him but with less conviction in the face of the editors, but the editors…. the editors, a married couple named Ramon and Catherine St. Lukas, They were the worst. It not only rubbed Vernon the wrong way that they truly believed everything that was published, but they were so…unapologetic about it. So proud of the work they did and somehow it didn’t sit right with him. But they weren’t unkind people, and the job paid well and his coworkers were predominantly good people and he really couldn’t complain, but he knew he could do better. During lunches he would sometimes mention how he wanted to write a big story about hoaxes that were debunked and how psychics were just really good at cold reading people and how hauntings were usually just leaky pipes and creaky old house foundations but it was undoubtedly a pipe dream, considering Catherine and Ramon’s absolute conviction in the stories they sold.

 

That is, until a staff meeting held at the beginning of summer during his third year with the magazine.

 

“We got a big tip the other day,” Catherine started, smiling wide as she shuffled papers on the table in front of her. “About a mysterious bunch of unsolved disappearances and a couple murders in central Wisconsin.”

A few hushed murmurs went up, no one nearly as excited about this tip as Catherine was. Vernon had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, unimpressed with the tip already.

“The call we got said that a little over twenty-five years ago,” Ramon started, looking down at his notebook, piecing together his notes. “There was a rash of disappearances – all young people - and the violent murders of two young women over the course of a summer that no one was ever able to solve. Thing of it is, there were a lot of weird things that happened in congruence with those disappearances and murders that point to something darker than just a serial kidnapper or a run-of-the-mill killer.”

“What sort of weird things?” a man named George asked. He was a copy editor, old and cranky but profoundly interested in the paranormal.

“Things like strange marks getting carved into doors and window sills overnight, tracks that didn’t belong to any sort of animal turning up in the woods and on the outskirts of town, lost livestock being found mutilated in places where they couldn’t have gotten to on their own…”

“And there’s bound to be more than that. We want to send someone on location for a few days, get some info and pictures, get accounts from the locals. Then maybe we can paint a better picture of what might have really happened.” Catherine added, still smiling wide, clearly already deeply invested in the piece.

“What did the tipster think?” the woman next to Vernon asked, clearly more interested in this line than he was. “Did they have a theory or whatever?”

“They didn’t say,” Ramon mused, closing his notebook. “But I’m sure the locals have plenty of ideas.”

“Who’s going, then?” another man asked, one of the lead reporters. He wore a vaguely smug grin on his face and again, Vernon fought to keep his eyes from rolling clear to the backside of his brain.

“We want to send someone with a clear head and good truth digging skills,” Catherine said as she stood up, the folder with preliminary information for the piece in her hands. “This could be a really big story, so Ramon and I decided Vernon would be the best man for the job.”

The young man nearly fell off his chair.

“You want to send…me?”

Catherine nodded yes vigorously, still smiling.

“…Are you sure?”

“Yes,” the woman said, her smile faltering just a little as she held the folder out to him. “Absolutely. We’d like you to leave tomorrow or the day after, if possible. Beat the weekend traffic out of town.”

Vernon looked between his editor and the folder she held out to him. He wanted to laugh, wanted her to snatch the folder back and say this was a joke but she didn’t, and suddenly he was keenly aware that all eyes were on him, waiting for him to move. He was ready to turn it down, to shake his head and lean away, distance himself from it but then it struck him: here was his chance. They were giving him something to disprove. This was his chance to write the article he dreamed about. And if they wouldn’t publish it? Well, he could still use the research and interviews to write… something else. Anything else! This was it.

He reached out and took the folder from Catherine, not opening it.

“I’ll be on the road by 8am tomorrow morning.” As soon as he spoke it felt like the entire room was able to breathe again. Vernon could feel the stares of the coworkers he was closer to, and the unbridled rage from the formerly smug lead reporter.

“Wonderful. Stop by our office before you leave today to get your per diem and we can talk about the direction we’d like to take with it.” Ramon said, shuffling a few papers of his own. Vernon nodded and looked at the folder in his hands.

This was it.

 

“So what sort of direction do they want to take with the story?”

Vernon looked over at the woman next to him from behind his beer. She was leaning against the bar, hand resting idly on her own drink, watching him as she waited for an answer to her question. The woman’s name was Meg; she was one of the writers and a kindred spirit with Vernon. She didn’t believe a lick of the things she wrote, but looked at it like exercises in trying to fool as many people as possible with good writing. She was one of the usual group that went to the bar two doors down from their offices after particularly bizarre workdays. After Vernon’s assignment, it had been unanimous that a few drinks were necessary.

“They want to crack the case open, want me to find some new evidence to bring it back to the attention of investigators. Ultimately they want to show that the answers are out there. They think a cult did it, a cult for some demon.”

“What sort of direction do _you_ want to take with it?”

Vernon took another long drink from his bottle of beer, pondering her question.

“I want to reiterate that a lot of sad things happened in a small town 25 years ago but that human beings are the only monsters we need to be afraid of. No magical cults, no demons.”

“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” Meg laughed, picking up her drink to sip at it. Vernon shrugged as the rest of the group, another journalist named Gavin and a copy editor named Ray, returned from their game of pool.

“Can’t stay out too late, can you, Vern?” Gavin asked, his British accent still strong despite having lived in the states for so long. “Aren’t you gonna be on the road by 8 tomorrow?”

“Don’t remind me,” Vernon said, finishing his drink. “I still have to pack, too.”

“I’ve got it,” Meg said, stopping him before be pulled out his wallet. “Consider it a parting gift.”

“You’re talking like I’m never coming back.” Vernon said, wanting to be annoyed by her comment, but grateful for the gesture, the two feelings cancelling the other out..

“Who knows? People have vanished from busier places then Bumfuck, Wisconsin.” Ray laughed, “Trust me, I’ve read all about it.”

“Right, right. Well, if I’m not back in two weeks, send a search party. Thanks for the drink, Meg. Gentlemen,” Vernon looked the two other men up and down, grinning at them. “Good luck.”

“Same to you,” Gavin smirked. “You might need it more.”


	2. a poor welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon makes his way towards the source of his story, but it quickly becomes clear that things aren't stacking up in his favor.

True to his word, Vernon was on the road by 8 am, cruising past traffic trying to filter into the city while he moved farther and farther away. The GPS on his phone told him he’d arrive in about four hours, so he settled in for the long drive, the scenery around him morphing from concrete and steel to drab, cookie-cutter suburbs to patchwork farm land and finally to unkempt fields and forests, the roads becoming less maintained and narrower. Vernon stopped at a town nearly 45 minutes from his destination, filling his gas tank and taking a few minutes to stretch his legs. The drive had been relaxing and not completely unpleasant. Much to his surprise, he travelled the roads mostly alone, only seeing a few vehicles travelling opposite of him, none on his course.

The pump clicked off, signaling a full tank and Vernon popped inside to pay, bounding out a moment later to continue his journey. A cool wind had picked up, and he glanced upwards, pleased to still see clear blue skies. Despite his unpleasant task soon to be at hand, he was beginning to think that the trip might actually be a relaxing time overall.

He kept on, the road gently leading him down into a valley, the curves bending to wrap about the natural paths on the hills, plunging him deeper into thicker and thicker forest. The long, reaching branches, coming down to trunks on either side of the road, nearly met over Vernon’s car, interrupting his view of the sky that had, suddenly, gone from bright blue to dangerous looking clouds. Thunder rumbled as he began to descend another hill, and heavy raindrops began to pelt his vehicle. His GPS told him he was five minutes away from town, and he accelerated just a little, enough to ease his mind that he could beat the storm to town.

The clouds, however, just grew darker, making mid-day seem like the edge of night, and above him he could see the tops of trees whipping violently in wind that didn’t quite reach the ground. He thought to try and find a radio station to get a weather report, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to figure out the local signals quick enough. The rain fell faster, the thunder rumbling deeper overhead but he never saw any lightening. He wondered if it was all in the clouds, building above him like a bad omen.

‘I’ve been around the St. Lukas’s too long,’ Vernon thought, frowning at himself. ‘A storm’s a storm, Not an omen.’

He believed that, truly, but he wasn’t about to deny that when he rounded a wide curve in the road, revealing a clearing in the forest – the last traces of the hill he’d descended giving way to buildings and a speed limit sign that dropped him to the crawl of 25 miles an hour -  he felt immense relief take over. The road that was the main street of the town was wider than the highway, and without curbs. Where the pavement ended, gravel began, creating wide paths on either side of the asphalt, sometimes turning into parking lots for buildings just close enough to the road. The first building on Vernon’s right touted a neon “OPEN” sign and a small, peeling billboard positioned near the road identified the building as “Hanson’s Bar”. Without a second thought, Vernon pulled into the empty parking lot and made a beeline for the door of the bar, nestled underneath an ancient looking metal sign that said “Hanson’s” in faded paint. The wind howled around him, and the trees seemed ready to topple over with the force of it, but inside the bar it was strangely quiet and empty, except for a man behind the counter, idly refilling a cooler with bottles from a bucket. When the door closed with a slight slam behind Vernon, the bartender looked up, frowning at his new patron. He was a solidly built man with shoulder-length brown hair, a flash of blonde appearing as he returned his attention to his task.

“Hell of a storm to be caught it,” the bartender said, not looking up. Vernon laughed nervously and moved towards the bar, rubbing at the wet spots on his sweatshirt.

“Yeah, it’s like it… came out of nowhere.” He slid into a stool and looked around the place, taking it all in. It seemed like a typical Midwestern tavern: handwritten signs for betting on upcoming baseball games crowded around décor that Vernon guessed had been on the walls since the place opened. Lots of old brand signage, and an ancient TV, currently turned off.

“Can I get you something?” the man asked, his tone indicating he wasn’t interested in playing at being nice. Vernon looked at the taps but didn’t see anything he recognized. Feeling rushed, somehow, he just asked for water. The bartender seemed to soften at the request and got the water he’d asked for, setting it on a small napkin on the lacquered bar. Outside, the wind continued to howl. The bartender frowned deeper, if that was even possible.

“You just passing through?” he asked after Vernon took his first drink. The bespectacled man set his drink down and shook his head.

“No, I’ll be around for a few days. I’m a journalist for-“ Vernon stopped short, suddenly very self-conscious. “A magazine out of Chicago. Just looking into the area.”

“Nothing interesting here,” the other man said, looking hard at Vernon. Staring intently, to be precise. The man’s gaze made Vernon markedly uncomfortable. “You should head home.”

There was a long silence between the two of them. Vernon wasn’t sure what to say to the bartender. He’d spoken with such seriousness that it threw him off, made him nervous. There was something…off about the bartender, about this bar…About everything, up to this point.

The silence was broken by a sudden crash from outside, causing both men to look back towards the front door.

“What was that?” Vernon asked, getting up from the stool. The small window on the door showed that the clouds had begun to clear, the storm over. Vernon slipped outside and his heart jumped into his throat. A portion of the metal sign that had been above the door had come loose in the storm and had crashed into the hood of his car, clearly crushing part of the engine underneath.

“Fuck,” Vernon breathed, running a hand through his hair, trying to quell the panic that was rising in his chest. The bartender was behind him in a moment, and he uttered a curse of his own when he saw what had happened.

“I’ll call the mechanic.” The bartender said as he disappeared back inside, leaving Vernon alone to stare at the damage to his car.

 

In minutes a tow truck arrived, dragging Vernon’s car away after he retrieved his personal items from the back seat. He stood in front of the bar, his suitcase at his feet and his laptop bag slung over his shoulder, watching at the tow truck disappeared down the road, making a turn on some unknown street.

“I’m… I’m sorry about that.” The bartender said, sounding remorseful yet annoyed, or maybe afraid. Vernon couldn’t tell, nor was he interested in trying to dissect a stranger’s tone. “I’ll cover the repairs, whatever they are. And I’ll put you up in the motel that’s just down the street. I’ll pull my truck around.”

Vernon nodded but didn’t say anything. The shock of the accident hadn’t quite worn off and it wasn’t the bartender’s fault but for some reason it felt right to blame him, in even the smallest ways, for what had happened. The mechanic who’d come to take his car had told him to come by the shop in the morning, he’d have a diagnosis by then but in the mean time, what was he supposed to do? He’d planned on staying in a real hotel in the next town and commute over, but now he was stuck in town, for who knew how long.

A car horn beeped twice and Vernon snapped back to reality. The bartender was sliding out of his truck to take Vernon’s luggage, setting it in the back. Vernon hopped into the passenger seat, trying to find the bright side to all of this.

“I’m Arin, by the way. Arin Hanson.” The bartender said, not looking at Vernon as he put the vehicle in drive and pulled out onto the road.

“Vernon Shaw. Thanks for being cool about…all that.”

“I feel bad. I thought I had that thing riveted to the building. I don’t know what happened.”

“Shit happens,” Vernon started, not sure how to follow up. He sighed as Arin pulled into the lot of the motel. It was a long, L-shaped building surrounded by pavement, with the room doors facing to the outside. Vernon slid out of the passenger side door and took his luggage back from Arin when he handed it to him.

“You’ll find a lot of shit happens here,” Arin muttered, leading Vernon inside. His words piqued the other man’s attention, and he took a few quick steps to get closer to the bartender.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well-“

“Who’s this, Arin Hanson? Have you brought me a too-drunk-to-drive patron?” A woman with long, curling hair was leaning on the counter that served as the front desk in what was the office area of the motel. Arin stepped to the side to let Vernon be seen by the woman, who quickly gave him a once over before looking back at Arin expectantly.

“No, a guy with some shit luck, Kati. Put him up in a good room and bill me for it.”

The woman nodded solemnly and took Vernon’s information down before handing him a key and pointing him in the direction he’d find his room. He thanked her and left, heading for his door, Arin following behind.

“I’m sorry again, for what happened. If there’s anything you need or that I can help you with, just swing by the bar, I’m always there.”

“No, I mean…like I said it’s shit luck,” Vernon started, coming to a stop outside his door. “But it was really nice of you to put me up in a hotel and all.”

“And like I said: you need anything, you come find me.”

“I appreciate that, Arin, I really do.”

“One last thing then, before I let you be.”

“What’s that?” Vernon asked, his hand resting on the door handle. The bartender threw him a sheepish grin.

“Might be bad timing, but welcome to White Mound, Vernon.”


End file.
